


Fair

by swordgirl



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Death, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Burns, Curses, Electrocution, Fantastic Racism, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mind Control, Miscommunication, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Poisoning, Protective Eskel (The Witcher), Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Self-Harm, Self-Sacrifice, Starvation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:14:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25033801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordgirl/pseuds/swordgirl
Summary: My works for Geralt whump week! None of these stories have any relation to another, except for Day 2 (Potions) and its sequel, Day 7 (Kaer Morhen).Chapter 1 - OstracismChapter 2  - PotionsChapter 3 - CursedChapter 4 - BetrayalChapter 5 - LonelinessChapter 6 - MonsterChapter 7 - Kaer Morhen
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 226





	1. Ostracization

“I need you to pour this potion on my wounds,” Geralt shoves the potion into Jaskier’s hands, making him drop his lute onto the ground, and definitely scuffing up the polish.

“Dammit, Geralt,” he snaps, but almost immediately reins himself in. He’s upset, yes, because they hadn’t managed to save the child they had been paid to retrieve, nor any of the others who had gone missing from the village, but Geralt had seen their bloodied corpses too, and he has talon marks on his shoulders, chest, and stomach to boot. The one on his stomach is especially concerning, because it’s making Jaskier come face-to-face with the fact that intestines wiggle on their own. He pours the healing potion on said cut, which sizzles and shrinks. The witcher doesn’t make a sound, or acknowledge the pain in any way except a slight tensing under Jaskier’s hand.

“The rest of these should last until we get to the healer,” Jaskier says, corking up the potion. He feels a little faint.

“Bard, pour the potion on the cut on my chest so we can be on our way,” Geralt snaps, and it’s only because Jaskier had already snapped at him unjustly that keeps his tongue.

Still, he didn’t come along to be an errand boy, and he won’t be treated like one. “I’m taking you to a healer to get these looked at properly. For Melitele’s sake, Geralt, I can see bone!”

Geralt sighs, but staggers to his feet, even allowing Jaskier to help him. Something about the resigned line of his shoulders strikes Jaskier as odd, but he doesn’t say anything until they reach the village gates, and even then, he doesn’t so much speak as grunt before heading off to the stables.

“Geralt, the healer’s is that way,” Jaskier points down the street, where a group of people are starting to gather.

“Show them the head,” Geralt growls. He’s holding his stomach and sounds a bit breathless, so Jaskier decides not to argue with his idiotic friend. Honestly, how had the man survived before Jaskier came along?

“Good evening, my fine fellows,” he smiles at the grim-faced villagers, who remain grim-faced. “As you can see, I have in my hands the head of, um,” shit, he’d forgotten to ask Geralt what the monster was called, “the creature that has been plaguing you.”

“And where is my son?” the woman who had hired Geralt gives Jaskier a steely glare.

“And my uncle?” asks a timid innkeeper.

“Where’s my wife?” asks the healer, stepping out.

“Well, they, um, that is to say, we couldn’t,” Jaskier’s golden tongue fails him. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Did the Butcher eat them like he did his victims in Blaviken?” the steely-eyed mother demands, taking a step forward. The crowd, three times larger than it was when Geralt had gone to get Roach, follows suit.

“Geralt doesn’t eat his victims,” Jaskier squeaks. He clears his throat, “I mean to say, your relatives, your loved ones, they were not victims of the witcher. The witcher’s saved you from the creature that actually-”

A rock sails over his shoulder, followed shortly by one that just barely misses his ear. He jumps out of the way of one aimed at his knee, and he’s just about ready to run when suddenly, he hears hoofbeats. The healer throws a rock over his head, followed by what looks like a hundred others.

Two hands pick him up and settle him on the saddle behind a body that’s not as steady as he would like. Roach neighs as she breaks into a run, rocks thud against the ground and Geralt’s armor, the villagers’ insults blur into a single rising scream, but above all of that, Jaskier can hear Geralt’s breath fade into a wheeze before it disappears altogether.

“Stop,” he says finally. “We’ve gone far enough, I need to look at your-” Geralt falls off “-wounds.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, so Jaskier curses and hurries off the saddle himself. He digs through the saddlebags for the potion he found earlier, and he unbuckles Geralt’s armor to pour the potion onto the oozing cuts. Geralt grumps as he jerks awake.

“I have some willow bark in my bags,” Jaskier says.

Geralt shakes his head. “It’s not so bad,” the lolling of his head belies his words.

Jaskier’s more careful this time, both because of the fading light, and because he knows, now, what sort of treatment Geralt can expect, even when he’s gotten hurt trying to defend small-minded people from a monster.

“Did you know this was going to happen?” he asks.

Geralt sighs. “When I saw the bodies,” he says, gently swiping something cold under Jaskier’s eye. Even that simple action seems to exhaust him, since he sits back down and lets his arm drop to his side immediately after.

Jaskier hurriedly wipes the rest of his tears away. “It’s not fair, it’s not fair how much they hate you,” he hates how small his voice is, he hates that he doesn’t have the skills to do more than seal Geralt’s injuries, he hates the villagers that would stone, even kill, the man who saved their lives.

Geralt tries to get up when Jaskier’s finished, but a single hand on an unmarred area of Geralt’s chest stops him. They both pretend it’s because he chooses to stop, and not because he’s so utterly spent from blood loss that he had almost begged Jaskier to treat.

“We’ll stay here tonight,” Jaskier says, taking their bedrolls off Roach’s back.

“You don’t want to find an inn?” Geralt asks, his eyes are already closing.

“Go to sleep, Geralt,” Jaskier says instead of answering. After the witcher’s breathing evens out into something that sounds far too slow for Jaskier’s comfort, he reaches out and pats Geralt’s hair. His hand comes out wet with drying blood from the few stones that had hit their mark.

Heroics and heartbreak, indeed, but it seemed there would be much more of the latter. Jaskier grips his hands into fists. He’ll find a way to add more of the former, if it’s the last thing he does.


	2. You Make Me Ache, You Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Potions. Geralt had clearly been rationing his potions, but because he smelled Eskel’s blood, he gave up one of his last healing potions.

All Eskel can think as he’s pushed down the dark tunnel is that he’s a goddamn idiot. The boiling water they forced down his throat and on half his body, he can heal from, just as soon as he figures out where Goatee Asshole and Tall Asshole took his bag of potions. The short-sightedness of accepting what he had known was too much money just to kill a single drowner, there’s no remedy for. Geralt would never have been caught in the Blaviken villagers’ trap like this. Shit, even hotheaded Lambert would’ve called bullshit from the start. When he gets out of here and back to Kaer Morhen for the winter, his brothers and Vesemir will never let him hear the end of it. Every day, giving up witchering to raise a goat farm is looking like a better and better idea.

A particularly harsh shove sends Eskel sprawling on the floor, nearly hitting his head on a grate when he can’t use his demeritum-bound hands to break his fall. Past the grate is a small fire with a bucket hung over it, illuminating an ashen-skinned, ashen-haired figure. When Eskel tries to call out to the figure, only a hoarse croak comes out. Right, boiling water down his throat, and no access to his potions. It’s going to be at least a day before he can speak again, and that’s assuming he doesn’t get further harmed in the process.

Goatee Asshole opens the grate, and Tall Asshole goes up to the shivering figure and kicks him, causing a harsh wheeze. Eskel tries to give a low growl in warning, and succeeds only in letting out a broken yelp that makes Goatee Asshole laugh.

“Get up, wolf,” says Tall Asshole, and Eskel rises, not wanting to give either of them a reason to kick whatever poor captive they have in here. His long hair is already white from shock, the last thing he needs is for Eskel to cause him more stress. To his surprise, the captive rises as well, albeit slowly, and his wheezing gets worse. Eskel would tell him to sit back down, if he had any voice left. Then the captive turns around, and he has no voice at all.

Tall Asshole had been speaking to Geralt, had kicked _Geralt_ , had had Geralt in here for Melitele knows how long. Eskel growls at Tall Asshole to leave, which actually has him scrambling back for a single satisfying second before his voice breaks. He coughs, feeling blood dribble down his chin.

Geralt blinks clouded black eyes at him, and this close, Eskel can see that his entire face is covered in burns.

“G-” his voice comes out in another gurgle of blood. Geralt’s face twists as he leans down, extremely close, and sniffs at the blood. Of course, his nose had probably been damaged from the boiling water. It was probably only the potion he had taken that allows him to smell at all. He wheezes again, bringing up a hand that’s shiny even with the effects of the potion, to pat Eskel’s shoulder lightly.

“Well, wolf, pick one,” Goatee Asshole says, and another asshole, who’s bald, walks in to replace the bucket over the fire with another bucket of water. Eskel staggers to his feet, placing himself between his brother and their tormentors, but Geralt pushes him aside. Although Eskel can feel how bony his fingers are through his clothes, he still finds himself pushed aside so Geralt can kneel next to the bucket of steaming water on the floor. What the hell is happening?

“Come on, hurry up, the water’s getting hot,” Bald Asshole says, bored.

Geralt picks up and tips the bucket too far, splashing some of the boiling water down his front and over what remains of his lips. Eskel lets out a weak shout that ends with him bent doubt and coughing blood onto the floor.

Geralt taps his shoulder again, and this time he moves the bucket of cold water closer to him. Eskel takes a few greedy gulps to soothe his throat, and then tries to offer the bucket to Geralt.

Geralt shakes his head and gestures to a bag in the corner of the room. Curious, Eskel struggles to open it with his bound hands. He turns around to see Geralt’s two healing potions and five various enhancement potions surrounded by empty bottles. He stares without understanding, without wanting to understand, that Geralt had only survived on these potions for however long he had been there. The potions, and boiling water. He reaches for one of the healing potions, but Geralt wheezes again and blocks his hand, before taking one of the more toxic potions and curling up as poison pumps through his veins.

Eskel pats Geralt’s shoulder, which seems to soothe him, and stays silent. He tries not to think about Geralt taking his most toxic potions, over and over, to ration his healing potions. He fails.

Wait.

Eskel drinks more of the cold water, hoping it could wash out the smell of blood, at least for a little while. He unbuttons his shirt halfway down his chest and presses Geralt’s head to it. The assholes had taken his medallion, but he could still show Geralt’s his heartbeat, far too slow for a human.

It takes Geralt a second to understand, but when he does, he jerks back and squints at Eskel’s face. Eskel takes Geralt’s hand and presses it to the scars across his face, and Geralt’s eyes go wide. He turns around and grabs one of his healing potions, uncorks it, and presses it to Eskel’s lips. Eskel can’t cry, the mutations won’t let him, but his eyes get warm, and his chest aches. Geralt had clearly been rationing his precious potions, but because he smelled Eskel’s blood, he gave up one of his last healing potions. The bastard.

Eskel’s not that badly hurt, so he manages to croak out, “No.” Geralt corks his potion again and curls himself around Eskel. He hisses when he feels the demeritum cuffs and withdraws his hand. Eskel nuzzles the top of Geralt’s head, trying to hold him with his body since his arms are shackled behind him. They fall into an uneasy sleep.


	3. I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Cursed. Jaskier is cursed to feel terrible pain unless Geralt is touching him. It takes him a long time to realize that Geralt was also cursed.

Jaskier’s made a lot of mistakes in his life. The day his mother told him that bees made honey, he went out and ate one (and if his tongue hadn’t swelled to twice its size, he might have assumed it was a defective one and tried to eat another). The day he found out his best friend was getting married, he seduced him (and then his wife), resulting in his exile from Lettenhove. The day he provoked an angry witcher after a failed dragon hunt, he turned his back and walked away. But this, well, this might be his biggest mistake yet.

He knew he didn’t have Geralt’s protection as he walked up to the mage from Blaviken, but he had always had more curiosity than sense, and he wanted to get the full story from someone who probably lived it.

Before he even takes three steps, Geralt comes out of nowhere and places himself between them.

“Stregobor,” he says, pointing his silver sword at, presumably, Stregobor.

The wizard gives a high-pitched laugh. “You haven’t changed a bit,” even his words gleam, somehow, like a snake’s eyes in the night. “Still so eager to throw your sword at all your problems.” His eyes fall on Jaskier, who suddenly feels like he’s fallen into an icy lake. “Oh, and you’re one of those problems, aren’t you?” he says, walking slowly toward Jaskier.

Jaskier tries to step back, but his feet might as well be glued to the floor.

“The only problem here is you,” Geralt hisses, but by the time Stregobor is right in front of Jaskier, the witcher’s only managed to twitch his feet in a different direction.

“Of course, what a problem I caused, hearing your blessing without granting it,” Stregobor raises his hands, and there’s a little bit of give now, so Jaskier takes tiny steps back while Geralt slowly raises his sword. Stregobor ignores them and calmly adds, “I’ll make it easier for you to take at least one of your problems off your hands.”

There’s a flash of light, and both Jaskier and Geralt fall back from the blast. Jaskier screams when he lands, both from the shock of impact and the feeling of _all his organs being on fire_.

“Jaskier?” Geralt kneels down to take his hand, and the pain immediately dissipates.

“Oh, thank you,” Jaskier gasps in relief. “It hurt so much, I thought I was dying.”

“Hmm,” Geralt puts his other hand on the ground to brace himself, before standing and pulling Jaskier up without any of his usual grace. Jaskier scrambles for balance, but even when he finds it, Geralt keeps his hold on his hand.

“Um, Geralt?” Jaskier looks closely at his maybe-friend. There are lines on his forehead that could be from anything, but no sign of a curse. “Not that I mind the contact, but is there a reason you’re still holding my hand?”

Geralt lets go, and pain slams into Jaskier with the force of a wyvern. His knees buckle, and he scrambles for Geralt’s hand again. The pain immediately disappears when their hands connect, and Jaskier realizes what Stregobor had done.

“I suppose we’re going to find another mage now?” Jaskier asks, resigned. He doesn’t want to see Yennefer again, but he wants the feeling that every single part of him is being crushed and boiled at at once even less.

“Yes,” Geralt grunts. He takes Roach’s reins with his free hand and walks slowly north.

“Um, shouldn’t we ask someone for directions?” Jaskier asks.

“I can feel where she is,” Geralt speaks through gritted teeth.

“Where is she?”

“In the direction we’re walking toward.” After that, Geralt stops responding to anything except to wipe sweat off his brow, even though it’s not that warm.

Then he suddenly freezes. Jaskier has to freeze, too, because something is rustling in the bushes to their left.

“What is it?” Jaskier asks, hoping the answer will be something they can run away from very quickly while still holding hands.

Geralt draws his sword, dashing those hopes. “There’s willow bark in my saddlebag, it might help,” he says, but they both know it won’t, because the pain has a magical source. “I’m sorry,” Geralt adds, before dropping Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier lets himself fall to the ground and curl up. Blood roars in his ears, blending with the roars of a creature he almost wishes would tear him apart, blending with Geralt’s animalistic cries.

Jaskier tries to distract himself by humming, but the pain builds on itself until he’s too busy gritting his teeth to even think of a song.

Finally, _fucking finally,_ Geralt returns, and his blessed hands take Jaskier’s again. Jaskier takes a moment to catch his breath, marvelling at the lack of pain. He really doesn’t appreciate his body for not hurting as much as it has been.

Then he notices the blood leaking between Geralt’s shaking fingers, pressed to the cut on his neck.

“Shit,” Jaskier says, even more breathless than before, and he reaches for the bag of potions. Geralt bares his neck, and the potion makes the cut sizzle as it seals shut, but Geralt doesn’t even tense. Or, rather, he doesn’t tense more.

“We should go,” Jaskier says when Geralt doesn’t make a move to stand up.

“Right,” Geralt sighs, rising laboriously. “Let’s go, Jaskier.”

His steps are slow and sluggish, and they only get more so as they continue walking. Jaskier asks, more than once, if he wants to stop for a rest, but Geralt has gone back to ignore him.

Then Geralt’s leg buckles, so he crashes to the ground, bringing Jaskier with him and breaking their hold. Immediately, Jaskier screams again, and it takes a second for Geralt to link their hands. He lets out a grunt, and now Jaskier can see how complete exhausted his friend looks, which makes no sense. Sure, he’s fought a creature and gotten injured, but he’s seen Geralt shrug off injuries that looked fatal, and if Jaskier can walk for the better part of a day, surely Geralt would be able to, also?

“Geralt, what’s wrong?”

“He’s in pain,” a woman says behind him.

Jaskier turns around. “God, I never thought I’d be saying this, but I’m actually quite pleased to see you,” he greets Yennefer.

She walks past him without acknowledging him at all, and presses a hand to Geralt’s head. Purple tendrils float between them, but whatever it’s for, whatever makes Geralt shake his head and Yennefer frown, Jaskier has no idea.

“You have to make it clear,” Yennefer says finally, “what your blessing truly is.”

Geralt scoffs, but he’s panting now, and every so often, a wince passes his face.

No, oh gods, please, no.

“What do you mean, he’s in pain?” Jaskier asks Yennefer. “Stregobor cursed me, not-” but Geralt had also been there.

“Think,” Yennefer turns her purple eyes on him. “What did Stregobor actually say?”

“‘I’ll make it easier for you to take at least one of your problems off your hands,’” Jaskier recalls in horror. “And I’m the problem.”

He braces himself, both for pain and for Geralt’s reaction, and tries to yank his hand out of Geralt’s grasp. But Geralt must have expected this, because he reaches his other hand out and traps Jaskier in place.

“Geralt, I know you’re sorry,” Jaskier tries to wiggle his hand out. Just that half an hour when Geralt was fighting whatever was bad enough, he can’t imagine fighting that pain for an entire day, and still clinging to its source. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I do,” Geralt’s eyes are strained, but clear. “Jaskier, I love you. You are, and always will be, my blessing. My only problem is Stregobor’s spell. I would hold your hand regardless of how much it-” his voice trails off, and he looks at their conjoined hands in surprise.

Jaskier waits. There’s a purple flash behind him, reflected in Geralt’s eyes, but he ignores it.

Geralt slowly opens his hand, one finger at a time, then takes his palm off Jaskier in a single fluid motion. Jaskier braces himself, but there’s no pain.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says as he stands up, smoothly, with no pain marring his movements.

“Did you mean it?” Jaskier looks up at Geralt.

His answer is a kiss.


	4. You'll Be the Death of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Betrayal. Cahir needs information from the witcher, and he's going to use the bard to get it out of him. It doesn't work out like that, because he miscalculated just how deeply they love each other.
> 
> Warnings: non-graphic rape, torture, manipulation, a character threatens to commit suicide (doesn't go through with it)

The whip draws blood, but not movement. The club draws bruises, but not sounds. The starvation draws sounds, but not words. The flesh of his knights draws words, but not information.

Cahir prides himself on his sadistic creativity, but apparently, even he has his limits. It might seriously be time to consider just beheading the Butcher of Blaviken and be done with it.

Then his knight catches the witcher’s bard trying to sneak food into the prison, and drops him unconscious on the cold floor.

Cahir can hardly believe his good luck as he goes to retrieve what’s rapidly becoming his favorite of Fringilla’s inventions, and he carefully pours the truth serum down Julian Pankratz’s throat with uncharacteristic gentleness. He tells himself it’s practice for the day he weds Princess Cirillia, but really, he can’t risk the human choking and spitting up the potion onto his clothes. There can’t be a single drop on him, or else the witcher would smell it.

When the bard wakes up, Cahir feeds him something drenched in spices, both to watch him try to hide his pained reaction, and to hide any trace of the potion. The bard babbles in between bites, but Cahir chuckles about his “nervousness,” and the explanation is accepted. He takes the bard down to the witcher, waits for his dramatic reaction to the oozing cuts, the blue-purple splotches, the handlebar ribs, the tacky blood on the seat of the Butcher’s pants, until the bard’s discomfort reaches its peak.

Witchers aren’t human, but they are made from humans, and Cahir sees the glimmer of a soul in the yellow eyes when they zero in on the bump on Julian’s head, where his knights had been too enthusiastic. But days of torture had slowed his mind down, so he has time to strike, and he does so quickly.

“As you can see, Julian,” he pats the bard’s shoulder just once, “we’ve tried every weapon in our arsenal, and we couldn’t break him. But you’ve traveled with him for much longer, what will affect him?”

“He hate electric eels,” Julian babbles, then blanches and covers his mouth. That gets the witcher’s attention too, his distress when he looks at the bard is the most reaction Cahir’s gotten from him in months, and he didn’t even really earn it.

Oh well, he can start earning it now.

He snaps his fingers, and his knights take Julian away as he protests that he doesn’t know why he said it, why he revealed Geralt’s worst fear, why he can’t stop speaking. Nothing he says now is important, unless it involves a person who can sell him eels.

It turns out that electricity can draw out information, but not the information Cahir’s looking for. He doesn’t need to know that witchers can scream, writhe, and, given the proper application of electricity to mutated muscles, break demeritum shackles.

The last thing Cahir learns is that witchers have a hand signal to set everything on fire.

* * *

Jaskier wakes to screams and clanking armor and a brightly illuminated cell. It’s clearly morning, since light flickers outside the bars and the filthy window of his cell, but he’s too bone-tired to even care. He goes to the window and cleans it just enough to see that it’s still nighttime, and only a mass of flames had convinced him it was already morning.

Shit, now he can feel the heat.

“Help!” he screams, looking for anything, _anything,_ that could help him out of his locked cell before he roasts to death. He goes to rattle the bars of his cell, but withdraws his hands with a hiss from the heated iron. “Anyone!” he shouts. He takes a breath to shout again, but inhales smoke instead of air, and ends up doubled over, coughing, and hoarse. Shit, he was going to suffocate if he didn’t burn first.

An unusually tall man in Nilfgaardian armor stops in front of the gate to make a hand sign that rips the gate off its hinges. Whatever it is, it clearly costs him, because he has to brace himself against the wall and cough out thick black blood, but he recovers quickly and walks toward Jaskier. Jaskier crawls back from the Nilfgaardian soldier, but there’s nowhere to go except into the fire, and he covers his face as the soldier kneels and-

Two bony hands pat him down in a pattern both familiar and unfamiliar. Familiar, because he has experience with broad, strong hands moving in exactly this pattern to check for injuries, but unfamiliar, because these bony, trembling hands have never touched him before.

He uncovers his face again, looks closer, and he’s right.

“I’m not hurt,” he says, and it’s true, so he sits up fluidly without wincing. “Geralt, ask me a question.”

Geralt shakes his head and grabs Jaskier’s shoulder with the intent of hauling him up. Jaskier doesn’t budge, but he recognizes the urgency in the movement and scrambles to rise. “Can you walk?” he asks, even though he had just seen him walking. Now that he’s paying attention, however, he can also see the signs of prolonged shocks in the way that Geralt rubbed his chest, the way he was nearly hyperventilating, the lightning-shaped marks up and down his skin where the armor was too small.

Usually, when they need to make a hasty escape, Geralt picks Jaskier up and breaks out, but Jaskier can stay in front of Geralt with no problem at all. He tries his best not to remember the time Stregobor cursed them both, and how horribly weak it made Geralt just to touch him just so he could relieve Jaskier’s pain.

“Do you know what he did to me?” Jaskier pauses to turn and shout at Geralt above the roar of the fire, crashes, and screams. “Is it going to be permanent?”

Geralt just pushes him ahead when he catches up, marching him forward. By the time the door is in view on the level beneath them, Geralt’s steps are heavy, and his breathing is so deep and rapid that Jaskier can feel it in on the top of his head even over everything else.

So, even though there are pressing concerns, Jaskier has to tell him.

“Geralt, I would never have betrayed you,” he says, planting his feet, “and if you don’t believe that, if you honestly think I would, then why don’t you go out that door, and leave me in here?”

Geralt doesn’t respond, just tries to push Jaskier forward, but he couldn’t move Jaskier in the cell, and he can’t move the man now, but then Geralt kneels, and fuck, he’s actually going to sit here and burn, isn’t he, if Jaskier doesn’t move?

Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand with the intention of hauling him to his feet, but the lack of air is making him dizzy, and he falls to the floor too. Geralt pushes him toward the door, and by leaning against each other, they manage to crawl down the stairs and out to safety at last.

As soon as Jaskier can take a full breath without coughing, he turns around to check on Geralt. The witcher is shaking far too hard to stand up, so Jaskier wraps Geralt’s arms around his own shoulders and picks him up by the legs. It’s slow going on foot, even though Geralt’s far, far lighter than he should be, and more than once, he has to lean against a tree for a second. But he never, ever lets Geralt go, not even when he whispers that Jaskier could run faster if he left Geralt to Nilfgaard’s tender mercies.

“Besides, you’ve done it once already,” Geralt says. His words grate against Jaskier’s ear the way that his broken ribs grate against Jaskier’s back, even through the armor.

“He must have drugged me, or poisoned me,” Jaskier pants. “I swear, Geralt, I swear on my life, that I owe you many times over tonight, on my lute, wherever it is, I swear on anything and everything I have, I didn’t betray you deliberately.”

“It’s alright,” Geralt pats Jaskier’s head, leaving streaks of blood. “You knew seeing you hurt would be worse, you made the right choice. Why do you think I still came to find you?”

Jaskier almost stumbles.

“Melitele, you’ll be the death of me,” Geralt sighs into Jaskier’s ear, and then his arms are lax on Jaskier’s shoulders.

Jaskier’s tears leave cool tracks on his face as he walks. He could carry the man on his back for a thousand miles and not earn the level of loyalty that he just showed.

Oh well, he can start earning it now.


	5. It's Me, It's Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A witcher with no senses is a witcher with no use, and a witcher with no use, well, witchers don't have friends.
> 
> Serious warnings for violence in this one, guys. The torture's on-screen and Geralt's mental state is, uh, bad.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” he says again, when Jaskier hisses at the needle threading through his arm.

“It’s alright,” Jaskier says, the hint of a sigh in his voice. “You already know I’ll forgive you anything.”

Geralt isn’t sure if the bard’s tone is bitingly sarcastic, or just biting, so he continues with his stitches. “Be careful until the moon begins waxing, or it might scar,” he says. Information is helpful, right, even if he isn’t?

“Hmm,” Jaskier responds, perhaps showing Geralt exactly how _helpful_ he finds that response. He hisses again when the needle breaks skin.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt apologizes for what’s probably the hundredth time that night. “I’ll try to be-”

“Would you stop!” Jaskier snaps. “It’s bad enough that I’ve been bitten, and can’t play, I don’t have the energy to remind you of what you should already know every five seconds.”

Geralt’s silent until the stitches are done, and he’s grateful his mutations don’t let him cry when he hears Jaskier’s grunt as he tightens the stitches.

“There’s a village not too far from here,” Geralt’s voice is grating, even to his own ears. He wishes he didn’t have to hear himself. “Would you like me to go with you?”

“No,” Jaskier’s sigh is audible now. “I can make it on my own.”

Ah, so this is it, then.

“Take Roach,” Geralt says, taking his bags off the horse. He can go on foot and buy a new animal when he gets to Kaer Morhen this winter. “I want someone to be looking out for you.”

Jaskier scoffs, probably not believing that Geralt wants anything for Jaskier at all. Still, he takes Roach’s reins, and waves. “I’ll see you around, Geralt,” Jaskier says before turning around.

Geralt watches him long after Jaskier can no longer see him. The bard had made such a big deal about twenty years of travel, but when it came to parting ways, it was Jaskier who was ready to leave without a second glance.

No, that’s not fair to him. Geralt had been the one to throw away those years first, and his inattention had gotten the human injured, to boot. _Well, Geralt, welcome to the first day of the rest of your life._

He can’t talk the innkeeper into giving him a room, so he sleeps in the barn. It’s insulting, being kept in with the animals, but the barn is warm, and he knows the horses won’t step on him. He’s shaped too much like their masters, and they’re too dumb to know any better. He doesn’t fall asleep that night, but he does manage to meditate for a some time, until his medallion hums against his chest. Between one blink and the next, he goes from the barn to a stone dungeon.

Fringilla laughs.

* * *

“Where is the child?” she asks, voice so loud that his ears bleed from the sound. She realizes her mistake when he stops responding to the sound of her questions.

“Where is the child?” she writes, in a room so bright that he cannot keep his eyes open. She melts his eyelids off in retaliation.

“Child?” she carves into the muscles in his arm. The scars layer over each other until he can no longer feel his arm. She moves onto his legs next.

“Child?” she starts carving into his chest. Geralt counts the days by the smell of breakfast in the hallway below him, so she pours boiling water down his nose.

The rest of his life stretches in front of him with an abrupt ending. He’s okay with this. A witcher with no senses is a witcher with no use, and a witcher with no use, well, he has no friends.

Dust tickles his throat, so he coughs. There’s a hand on his chest, another at his back, so he supposes he’s being flipped around. He waits for the pain, but there is none. Fringilla, because it can be no one else, presses something sweet against his lips. It must be some sort of poison, so he spits it out. Something salty and liquid is poured in next, directly down his throat and accompanied by a hand that massages it down. He waits for it to kill him, but it doesn’t. Instead, he feels warmer, stronger. He thinks he hears the strumming of a lute, but that’s not possible, so he allows himself to be unconscious again.

When consciousness returns, he sees the blue of Jaskier’s favorite doublet, a round spot of tawny brown like Jaskier’s hair, and a bigger spot of irregular brown that could be a horse. But he knows Fringilla just decided to change her hair and clothing, so he doesn’t say anything. He accepts more sweet and salty poisons, and they make him feel heavy, so he supposes the rest of his life is finally over.

The next time he’s conscious, he feels a flash of disappointment, then something warm on his arm. Something else, something harsher, brushes down one of his arms, and something heavy covers his legs. He doesn’t bother moving any of his limbs, they’d be bound again if she thinks he can move. He resigns himself to being carved again, but no one touches him, although he supposes he wouldn’t know if they did.

He dreams of Jaskier singing lullabies to him and speaking nonsense, as usual. His voice is indistinct, and Geralt can’t quite hear the melodies he plays on his lute, but he allows himself to enjoy the dream, as faint as it is. When he opens his eyes, he closes them again. Let Fringilla melt his eyelids again, it’s not like his life has anything he wants to see. He’d much rather dream about the only friend he had ever made, even Geralt can’t make out his features anymore. He panics a little, but it’s just a dream, no need to worry.

“That’s right, there’s no need to worry.”

God, he’s been alone for so long, he can even hear the bard’s voice.

“Of course you can hear me, I’m right here. I’ve been here, can’t you-,” Jaskier’s stopped playing. “You can’t think I’m this Fran Giller person!”

“I know it’s you,” Geralt tells his dream. “I hope you’re safe, I hope you’re not here, I’m glad you didn’t stay.” His eyelids are threatening to open again. Can’t Fringilla melt them away again? If his eyes are ruined, he never has to look anywhere but at Jaskier again. But he supposes he has to open his eyes and-

And-

“It’s me,” Jaskier whispers, when he hears.

“It’s me,” Jaskier smiles, when he sees.

“It’s me,” Jaskier says into the palm of his hand, when he can lift it again.

“It’s me,” Jaskier hugs him, and doesn’t say a word when Geralt sniffs his hair.

“Dear hear, it’s me, it’s me.”


	6. It's What My Rotting Bones Will Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't even hesitate before throwing himself between Jaskier and the arachna's descending, venom-covered leg.
> 
> Warning: some fantastic racism (a character doesn't use healing items meant for people on Geralt and phrases it, um, badly, and gets called out for it later)

The trick with basilisks is to use fire, the trick with bruxas is to use silver, the trick with ghouls is to draw them out of their nest to fight them two or three at a time, and the trick with kikimoras is to be faster than they are. Unfortunately, that only works if the monster he was contracted to fight is actually the monster he fights. When the nest of kikimoras turned out to be a nest of poisonous arachnas, well, there’s no time to rue the healing potions he left in Roach’s saddlebags.

Geralt steps carelessly around the bones of the villagers’ children as he hacks at the young ones. He winces at the amount of noise they’re making, but only that. They don’t have working venom glands yet, their only danger lies in their tiny pincers that are easily dodged, and the pheromones they release to let their mother know they’re in danger. And, speak of the devil, the ground rumbles.

The full-sized arachna has legs easily the size of Geralt’s body, and he only has his swords and slowly fading black blood in his veins and running down his legs where the baby arachnas had bitten through his armor. Still, he rushes forward and tries his best to kill the arachna before it can get past the cave opening and to Jaskier and the village. He knows he only has a limited amount of time before the fight would send the whole cave down, and it wouldn’t be enough to kill the arachna before it escaped and went toward the village.

It’s the work of a moment to throw down an Aard and block the cave entrance, crushing any arachna young on their way out. Geralt vaguely registers their squeals with satisfaction, while the mother spits acidic venom at his arm and attacks him with renewed effort. His lands a strike directly to her venom gland, which only ends with it being sprayed across his midsection, his legs, the arachna’s own legs, and dissolving part of the cave floor. The remaining arachna young swarm all over him, inflaming the affected patches of skin until he’s gritting his teeth not to scream and risk the entire cave coming down.

Oh, there’s an idea, why hadn’t he done this already? He allows himself a single cry, then begins focusing Aard at the ceiling. It cracks, then cracks more, then rocks start to fall. He continues throwing fading signs into the ceiling until a single ray of moonlight falls on his face. Right, that was why, if the cave came down, it give the arachna mother an escape route.

His legs spasm underneath him as he rises, and he almost falls. The arachna venom was already taking effect, then, making him stumble as he chases the arachna. He prays that he won’t be too late, that this won’t be the time he’s too slow. Jaskier screams, but he’s not running. When Geralt bursts through the trees, he finds Jaskier cowering in front of the campfire. The arachna bellows her victory and snaps her pincers, but Jaskier ducks out of the way, and the arachna finds herself with a mouthful of flame instead. She shrieks in pain and anger, legs slicing through the air. Jaskier’s curled into a ball, as small as he can be, but it’s not enough.

Geralt doesn’t even think before throwing himself in between Jaskier and the arachna’s descending leg. It feels like a red-hot poker going into him, but it’s nothing compared to the extreme cold he feels as it goes out of him.

Jaskier’s scream cuts off into a whimper.

Geralt stabs the arachna with both his swords at once, through the head and through the heart, and twists and twists until the arachna’s legs withdraw into herself. Geralt slides limply off and can’t find the strength to move to brace himself for the fall. He lands hard next to where Jaskier is panting and whimpering, from the same unbearable pain he’s feeling. There are more pokers being pressed his arms as he picks Jaskier up and presses a hand against the bloody wound. Jaskier writhes, making the sort of sounds a human does when they can’t get enough air to scream, and Geralt grits his teeth and can’t get any air at all. Someone’s stabbing knives right into the marrow of his bones, thwarting his attempts to stand, but eventually desperation gives him enough traction on the cobblestones to rise and stagger to the healers’ hut.

She blanches when she sees them. Geralt’s sure he looks terrifying, but he deposits Jaskier onto the nearest flat surface, knocking over some silverware and a glass of wine, before his feet collapse from under him. “Arachna venom,” he growls. “I’ll pay,” he pants from his new vantage point on the floor.

“I only have one antidote, I’m not wasting it on you,” the healer says, pointing to her own eyes and then to Geralt. He doesn’t mind, but he’s regretting not getting some of his healing potions from Roach while he had been upright.

The healer is careful not to jostle Jaskier’s wound as she lifts him and slowly pours the antivenom down Jaskier’s throat, massaging it so he swallows easily. Geralt finds himself relaxing a little when the bard does, and his eyes threaten to close. He wonders if he’s going to die here, if Jaskier would ever come back to sing over his rotting bones.

“Hey, no,” the healer snaps her fingers next to Geralt’s ear. “Where are your potions, then?” she demands.

“Horse,” he grits out. He hears rustling, then nothing, then a feminine shout. A door slams once, twice, and he jerks at that. There’s the sound of not rustling, and he can smell some blood on his saddlebag.

“Which one?” the honey smell gets closer.

Geralt almost knocks it onto the ground, but the healer has fast reflexes, or maybe he’s just slow. She uncorks the bottle, lifts his head, and pours it down his throat. “Do you need another one?” she asks.

He thinks he nods, because she gives him another one before wrapping his side with what seems to be a mile of bandages. Then she leaves him to burn through the venom on his own. He watches, hardly able to move from the pain, while she jumps over Geralt’s body with herbs that she sticks to Jaskier’s wound, and bandages she carefully wraps around his side. Her hands are light and gentle as she touches him, even putting a pillow and a blanket around him where he sleeps on her dining table, and Geralt finally relaxes enough to slip into, if not meditation, then at least semiconsciousness.

Jaskier’s in safe hands, and he’s in his own hands, that’s as good as such a night can end.

“Why are you twitching?” Jaskier demands in the morning. “Why are you on the floor?”

Geralt tries to explain, but the venom is still burning through his body, which is having a harder time filtering it out due to the effects of two potions and severe blood loss.

“I couldn’t lift you, how do you expect me to lift him?” the healer snorts. She takes a bag of coin out and hands it to Geralt. “You should’ve been paid for for the arachna, but the alderman didn’t want to give you any more, so I won’t charge you for my services.”

“Of course you shouldn’t charge!” Jaskier pales and puts a hand on his side. “You didn’t help him at all!”

“I used the last of my arachna antivenom on you,” the healer ignores him. “Be careful with that,” she says, taking out a roll of bandages and handing it to him. “Make sure to clean and rewrap that at least once a day.”

“And what did you do for him?” Jaskier points where where Geralt wishes he would stop twitching.

“Look, all of my knowledge is on how to treat the human body,” the healer snaps.

“She fetched my potions,” Geralt rasps. “It’s not her fault arachnas are deadly.”

“You could’ve at least given him a blanket,” Jaskier glares at her.

“I only have two,” the healer snaps back. “If you’re so unhappy with my treatment, you are free to leave.”

Geralt flops his arms around until he lands on something he can grip with nerveless fingers, but his feet don’t want to cooperate with his attempt to stand up.

“You can stay,” the healer says finally, when it’s clear he won’t be leaving. “ _You’re_ not being ungrateful,” she pointedly looks away from Jaskier.

Geralt finds himself smiling as Jaskier sputters indignantly.

“Can you believe her nerve?” Jaskier says, looking at any direction but Geralt.

“She’s not the monster here, I killed the only one to blame for our wounds last night,” Geralt says, wishing he could move and comfort the bard.

His words just make Jaskier retreat further into himself. “She said she only had supplies for one,” he mutters. “You were hurt, too.”

“And I’m healed,” Geralt gestures to his middle, where he’s hoping there’s significantly less blood than there was last night.

Jaskier sighs and gingerly gets off the table. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to have a spot to eat her meals,” he mutters, before lifting Geralt’s head to place his pillow underneath, and draping the blanket over both of them as he lays his own head on Geralt’s chest.

When he wakes, Geralt insists on picking herbs for more arachna antivenom before they leave.


	7. It's Not Like I've Never Heard You Fart And Snore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road to Kaer Morhen is fraught with danger, and that's without having been disemboweled and burned first.
> 
> Warnings: gore, several people are burned to death, offscreen animal death.

Despite Geralt’s best efforts, Eskel can’t drift off into meditation while he’s in the cell, not when every voice is mocking laughter, when every thump is more boiling water being carried in, when every shift of Geralt’s body causes a hiss of pain. Eskel wishes he knew where his horse was, so he could retrieve his words and run these people through.

He pushes the bucket of cold water closer to Geralt. Unsurprisingly, the white-haired witcher shakes his head, but Eskel just pushes it back. Finally, Geralt picks up the bucket and drinks, but he still leaves some in before pushing it back to Eskel. Something in Eskels heart cracks, and he finishes the rest and tests his throat. It’s raspy, but it’s enough to produce sound, and although Geralt’s eyes, mouth, and nose are melted ruins, his ears seem relatively intact. “Horse,” he tries. The word comes out barely audible, even to Eskel’s ears.

Geralt’s eyes turn down. So, he can still hear as well as he did before, it seems, but that doesn’t explain the way he curls in on himself. Did he hear something different than what Eskel intended? Not all hearing damage would have physical signs, after all. Eskel clears his throat, and makes as much noise as he dares as he crawls closer. He can see Geralt’s pupils trying to dilate, but there must be too much damage for him to see, still. He pushes down another spike of anger, it’s not useful here, now. “Horse,” he says. “Where?”

It can’t be tears filling Geralt’s eyes, the mutations removed the ability to cry. But then again, Geralt’s eyes had been badly damaged, and he had received extra mutagens before.

Geralt’s hands touch his stomach. Eskel’s heart sinks, and he can’t help his sharp intake of breath. Geralt lets out a weak noise and curls in even further into himself.

“Those bastards,” Eskel rises, furious, and strikes ineffectually at the wall. The sounds reverberates up to where the Assholes are probably sleeping, and soon there are far too many people in the room, one of whom is holding a fucking spear, of all things.

Fuck, Eskel grits his teeth. He and Geralt are both bound with demeritum, weaponless, and Geralt’s is injured to the point of near senselessness, how can they possibly win?

One of them walks forward, boldly and holding a knife, to grab Geralt’s hair. Even while he knows this is a bad idea, Eskel lunges for him with a Lambert-like growl, only to be dragged back by three, then four men. There’s a _snik_ of metal against a sheath, and Eskel is forced to freeze when the cold ribbon of another knife is placed against his throat. Geralt’s heard it too, because he stops moving as well, even when Bold Asshole places his knife in Geralt’s hand.

“You know how to butcher people, don’t you?” Bold Asshole says. “Come on, show me how you do it,” he pushes Geralt closer to Eskel. “Go on.”

Geralt kneels in front of Eskel, frowning and hesitating. Eskel actually finds himself relaxing. “It’s okay,” he says, getting a small knick and a small trail of blood down his neck in return, which he ignores. Geralt knows he’s a witcher, created to survive unthinkable injuries, surely he knows he can cut him without killing him. And then, yes, Geralt raises the knife. His hands must be hurting him, because he grips the knife at a strange angle, although it could be because the demeritum’s burning his hands, and-

NO NO NO

Geralt grunts just once as he fucking disembowels himself.

“Oh, that’s fucking precious,” one of the men holding Eskel laughs, and then suddenly, they’re all laughing.

“Alright, well, we did get our blood, I guess we’ll forgive your disobedience today,” says Spear Asshole, patting Geralt mockingly with his free hand. There’s another round of laughter from the room. The man pressing the knife against Eskel’s neck relaxes his grip, and that’s all he needs.

Eskel flips around and grabs the knife. He slashes the throats of the four men who had been holding him and stabs it into the brain of a fifth through his eye, getting another knife near his elbow for his trouble. Spear Asshole approaches, and Eskel holds his wrists out right as he stabs forward. He gets a deep wound right on his shoulder, but his demeritum shackles are broken, so it’s worth it.

He sets them all on fire, something he regrets a second later when Geralt lets out a panicked noise and tries to back away from the fire, holding his guts in one hand. Eskel picks up the spear and breaks his shackles, and Geralt’s Aard blasts him against the wall, drawing out a shout when Eskel lands on his bleeding shoulder.

Geralt pauses. “Skl,” he rasps.

“Yes,” Eskel staggers to his feet and grabs Geralt’s potions before staggering back to his side. “Here,” he dumps one of the healing potions down Geralt’s cracked and bleeding mouth. Geralt takes the second one with his own red and shiny hands, and he relaxes a little when the pain starts to ease. But there’s so much to heal, even with all his potions, the cut on his stomach isn’t healing at all. So Eskel leans down and picks him up. He’s much lighter than he should be, but Eskel’s shoulder protests the action, and he nearly loses his balance when one of the men reach up and grabs his ankle. He manages to kick himself free, but between his limp, the blood loss, and his unfamiliarity with the area, it takes him a while to get out of the building, and then he has to dodge the suspicious villagers.

He just barely gets halfway through the woods before his legs finally give out, and they both land painfully on the ground.

For a second, they lie there, breathing heavily. Then Geralt turns around.

“Leave me,” he grits out.

There’s no wound Geralt could give him that would hurt worse than this. Eskel scoffs and turns around to wrap his arms around Geralt’s body as his best friend does the same thing. He’s careful to avoid the wound on Geralt’s stomach, and thanks every star in the sky that they’re close to Kaer Morhen. After that, he doubts Geralt would ever trust a human near his body again.

Geralt falls asleep first, even though they’re in the middle of nowhere, and Eskel’s content just to watch him sleep. Tomorrow, he’ll have to find something he can use to wrap Geralt’s stomach, and they’ll have to walk up to the keep, but for now, he can just enjoy being close. He rolls to his side, and Geralt unconsciously does the same, until Eskel’s so close he could kiss him, if he dares.

Does he?

Geralt lets out a snore so loud, he wakes himself up. He meets Eskel’s gaze, and they burst into giggles.

The rest of the night passes peacefully, and they find a small stream that allows them both to wash the debris out of their wounds, and Eskel washes his shirt before ripping it into a bandage for Geralt’s stomach. There’s a small piece of willow bark in Geralt’s bag, and which the stubborn witcher insists that Eskel take, since he’s the one who’s actually walking. Eskel doesn’t fight it, because walking on a burned ankle and carrying Geralt with his impaled shoulder is actually pretty difficult. When they find the path up to Kaer Morhen, Geralt hops out of Eskel’s grip and lands on the ground.

Then he falls directly on his face, and Eskel unsuccessfully hides his laughter as he offers his arm for Geralt to use to pull himself up. Still, for the rest of the day, Geralt holds up pretty well, and even manages to help Eskel right himself after he trips on a well-hidden root. But that only lasts until the first snow of the season hits, and they both huddle together, as small as possible, in the meager shelter of a large rock. Geralt eventually casts Quen, and Eskel manages to make a small fire to warm them with.

Eskel wakes up to the sound of Geralt panting, but he’s not shivering. In fact, there’s a sheen of sweat on his face, and his scarred fingers are raised in-

Ah. The idiot’s overtaxed himself, keeping the shield up all night.

Before Eskel can scold him, Geralt lets the shield drop. The snow collapses, burying the fire, and cold steals the words out of Eskel’s mouth.

“Your farting was keeping me awake,” Geralt says.

Eskel slaps his shoulder, actually knocking him over when Geralt doesn’t have the strength to stay upright even against that meager pressure. Eskel picks him up again to start the slow, freezing trek up to the keep.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says into Eskel’s chest. “I should be able to walk.”

And Eskel can’t stand it anymore, so he puts Geralt down, just so they can be on equal ground for Eskel to yell at him. But there’s a grim, resigned look on Geralt’s face, and Eskel had been a food to think his heart couldn’t be further wounded.

His face must also be doing a complicated thing, because Geralt gives him a small, brave smile. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “It’s smart.”

And Eskel doesn’t want to hear, so he kisses Geralt, who’s speechless. It’s a lot easier carrying him like this, silent, still, and happy.

“Get a room!” Lambert hollers from where he must have been watching them for the last mile.

They break apart and laugh.


End file.
